Alone Now and Remembering So Much

Beverly Isenberg is no longer a caregiver for a husband with Alzheimer’s. Alone now, she remembers the times before her husband, George, lived in a care facility 90 miles away:

REMEMBERING

I think about George a lot. I think about him a lot more than I ever thought I would. Maybe no one else has thought about death and what it would be like to be alone and wonder if they could make it by themselves. I have, many times and at different periods of my life. When we married 67 years ago George was in the army (it was WWII) and we were apart for more than three years. Really. From October, 1942 when he left me in San Francisco until December, 1945 when he got off the train in Wisconsin that adds up to three years and three months. But I don’t remember thinking about him coming home in a flag-draped coffin, no indeed. My thoughts then centered on a life together when he got home.

And that’s what I keep remembering these days. George isn’t dead. Sometimes I think it would be so much better if he were. He has Alzheimer’s and is living in a care facility 90 miles away from me. So I don’t see him every day but I think of him many, many times every day.

Like Elizabeth Barrett Browning, let me count the ways. He was always good company. At breakfast we read the morning newspaper, commenting to each other on the good and bad and ridiculous news items as we came to them. This morning the dreadful details of a fire fight between a small unit of soldiers and a gang of well-armed insurgents was headlined. The battle took place on an outpost in Godforsaken Afghanistan.

George was a young lieutenant when he went to Korea in 1950 and it is the lieutenants who are given the task of manning an “outpost” with their men. Dirty, scary work. Outposts are exactly what they sound like. A place out away from the main body of troops, usually on a hilltop, where they can observe and report on the enemy. Always a long way from friendly troops. This time it took half an hour before aircraft could get to this particular outpost with help and the result was eight good men dead, most of them young men, just starting their lives. I thought of George performing that same job so long ago and I remembered how ignorant I was of the peril he was in.

That was not a good memory. But then I thought of him when he came home and I met him at the airport. He was in uniform when he walked off the plane and looked so good and I was so proud of him. I remembered how happy I was that he was home again and I wished he could come home to me like that again, just one more time.

I wish he could remember some of these things that I remember, but he can’t. His memory is gone for good, erased by a dreadful disease. And that’s the worst part of remembering. I can never say to him, “George, do you remember the day you came home from Korea?” It’s a memory we can’t share again. I miss him so much.

This goes on all day long. My granddaughter gave me a little Chihuahua dog to keep me company. She named the puppy Vaquera, meaning “cowgirl.” Vaquera chases squirrels and tries very hard to make friends with my 12-year-old male cat. Vaquera doesn’t have any idea of the danger she is in when she tries to be friendly with that cat. The cat is bigger than the dog and could tear her to pieces without breaking a sweat. But he doesn’t. He just stalks off in a high dudgeon. I compare the cat and dog to Mr. Wilson and Dennis the Menace. Then I remember how that cat was always George’s cat. It followed him around the house, slept in his chair until George pushed him out, and always came to meet and greet George whenever he was away for a time. I think the cat misses George as much as I do. And when I see the silly little dog chasing a squirrel that she honestly believes she can catch. I want to call George to come and watch. But no, we’ll never enjoy little things like that together again.

And so the day goes by. Remembering so much. I fried bacon for a BLT sandwich at noon and thought, “Good. I can let it all get brown and crispy the way I like it.” George liked it just the opposite. I wondered if he ever got BLT sandwiches where he is now. Probably not.Then more remembering, about the time I fried out a whole pound of bacon and we ate it with plain bread and butter and hot coffee on a very cold day when we were camping out in the woods.

There is nothing in this world that I can do or think about that doesn’t bring up another memory of the times we had together. I suppose I should be grateful for so many good memories but it’s hard. I just want him to be able to come home and remember them with me.